


Exchange Rates

by Helicidae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helicidae/pseuds/Helicidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In John's family you grew your wings when you found your life's partner.  He didn't often dwell on the fact that not one of them could actually fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exchange Rates

**Author's Note:**

> For the a prompt on the Sherlock prompt meme.
> 
> Translated into Chinese here, by orange_s (thank you!): http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php
> 
> and here, by elvina-moqi (thank you!): http://elvina-moqi.livejournal.com/4651.html or http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2957&extra=page%3D1

His back had been aching for days. John put it down to the bruising he’d got from falling down the stairs the previous week on one of Sherlock’s mad criminal chases. That ought to have been the first clue.

Then he’d woken up lying on his front, which never usually happened, and rolled over. There’d been something lumpy on the bed, just under his shoulder blades, but on getting up he hadn’t found anything. Assuming he’d been imagining it as half asleep he’d got changed and went downstairs. That had been the second clue. And if his back had felt uncomfortable under his shirt, rubbing in the wrong places, well, it had been a pretty nasty tumble, cushioned at the end by the edge of a very solid wall. Thus the third clue had gone unnoticed as well.

The fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh clues all went along similar lines: sitting against high backed chairs and clothing pulling, feeling tight and sore. All were ignored in favour of mundane real life: hours at the surgery and bustling tube journeys, cooking a modest supper that Sherlock managed to gorge himself on – eating his own, a good part of John’s and both leftover portions, even though he complained several times about overcooked pasta and under-seasoned sauce, before crashing straight back to sleep on the sofa and leaving the washing up it had been his turn to do for John once again.

It wasn’t until the next morning when he woke with an aching chest from lying on his front all night, pillow too hot and ever so slightly damp where he’d drooled on it while sleeping, and John attempted to turn over, that the clues became just too hard to miss.

Of course it was obvious in retrospect, stupidly so. In the bathroom, door locked – not that locks ever stopped Sherlock but they did slow him down – John craned to look at his back in the mirror, stretching around to brush his fingertips against the lumpy buds just behind and above his armpits, the swell of new muscles across his shoulders and between the protrusions. The whole area was red and itchy, swollen as if with infection. With a little concentration John managed to make the limb buds twitch, just a bit, which hurt like the blazes but somehow scratched an unknown itch: contracting unused muscle, stretching out a cramp he hadn’t known had been there.

The buds were about ten centimetres long, five in diameter and bulbous at the tips. They were covered in tender skin, pale if not for the red flush, and at the end, looking closely, bones could be made out: four of them, finger like, though another ought to be forming soon if his mother and Harry were any indication.

John caught himself grinning in the mirror – from shock, from giddy excitement (even barely formed they just felt so damn right) and forced the smile off his face. A smile was stupidly inappropriate. His wings were growing. That meant, of course, several things. Big things. Massive, life changing, your world will come crashing down now things.

First of all it meant that _he was growing wings_. Great hulking wings, sticking out of his back like two fluorescent flags labelled Here Is A Freak Of Nature. Anomalies of this magnitude were very almost unheard of.

His mother’s wings were small and delicate, the skin stretching between bones thin like tissue paper. She hid them under baggy clothes, pinned to her body with strips of cloth, and relied on society’s political correctness to avoid confrontations for the occasional appearance of mysterious lumps. The same baggy clothes hid the scars of domestic abuse, and if anyone had noticed her wings shrink and wrinkle after the divorce they hadn’t said anything.

Harry’s wings had been larger. Much larger. Ten years ago she had turned up on John’s doorstep, wearing a poncho of all things, and safely locked in his room her wingspan had reached from wall to wall and still couldn’t stretch out fully.

Two years on, after yet another screaming argument with Clara, she’d called him up drunk and demanded that he cut the things off. He was a surgeon, he had to know how, the NHS wouldn’t. She looked like a hunchback; she couldn’t wear nice clothes. Not t-shirts in summer, not smart suits to work. Not the wedding dress she loved. He’d panicked and said no. The next time he saw her she’d been wearing a tank top and the scars had ran like deformed spider web over the whole of her back. Shoddy, amateur work. Not the NHS then.

John slipped on his shirt and it tented out behind him into misshapen lumps. When the muscle was more developed he ought to be able to flatten the wings against this back, but not now.

The second thing it meant – should mean – was that he’d finally found his life partner.  He’d almost given up by now.  Years ago when he’d still been searching, back before Afghanistan, any itch in his back had made his heart leap, made him peer into the face of the guy or girl he was with and wonder if they were the one.  Made him disappointed and withdraw from later, more serious relationships when no wings grew.  He’d stopped after a decade, by thirty started to wonder if he was ever going to find someone, if he was going to grow his wings when he did.  By now he’d very almost forgotten about it.

The third thing it meant, and John couldn’t help the feeling in his gut (swelling, silly joy? or fear? relief?) as he looked down the stairs to where his flatmate presumably was, probably still asleep, was that his partner or mate – hell, _future husband_? – was in fact Sherlock Holmes.

There was a tightening in his chest as John dug out an old sheet and some scissors, cutting the fabric into strips. God. Sherlock. Somehow it wasn’t a surprise. Maybe he should even have expected it. Or not. Sherlock? So John had had a silly little crush on him, ever since they’d met really, but that had passed and they were friends now, first and foremost. The material was itchy around his wing buds, sore when pulled tight. He undid the bindings and tried again.

Sherlock and he were friends. Close friends, yes. Very close. This time the wrapping was less constricting but still far from comfortable. He stretched out his arms to make sure it wouldn’t slip and it did.

He’d killed for Sherlock before. He was sure he’d die for him, and when Sherlock’s black moods came around, inevitable, there was little else he could do but live for the man as well. Then there were the other moments, smaller moments. When he’d fallen down the stairs last week and had lain there, groaning and too sore to move, and Sherlock had been by his side before he’d even opened his eyes. When Sherlock had demanded that he was okay and held his upper body to his own, running a gloved hand along John’s limbs and ribs to feel for broken bones, kept his hand there long after no breakages had been found. The way he hadn’t pushed John off when John’s hands had found his upper arms, questioning why they weren’t moving, and they had touched heads gently, temple to temple.

Then John thought of the long lines of Sherlock’s body, of his slender muscles and hips, flat stomach and round arse. On the thin side of healthy but slowly filling out. Glimpses of pale skin and darker nipples when Sherlock didn’t bother with such plebeian things as modesty, dressing and undressing in the living room or kitchen. Blood pooled in John’s groin, hot, and he felt himself flush with embarrassment, stained with not a little amount of fear and just a touch of heady anger.

Anger because how could these stupid wings decide who he was going to love? He didn’t need or want some overgrown third pair of limbs telling him how to live his life, who to live his life with.

Fear because the wings were growing out of his own bloody back, not Sherlock’s, and how could he tell that the only thing they would mean to Sherlock wouldn’t be just another experiment, albeit an unusual and extraordinary one?

He arranged the bindings, making sure they wouldn’t slip and were as comfortable as they’d get, then slipped on a T-shirt, a shirt, then one of his largest jumpers. It was enough to cover the lumps but far too hot for the flat. He rolled up his sleeves, left off his socks. Sherlock would notice at once, there was no doubt about that, but whether he’d bring it up was another matter entirely.

It was half past ten. He’d been putting off going downstairs for long enough. As he walked his back felt hypersensitive and he could feel his heart beat in his throat.

Sherlock was slouched on the sofa, sleeping, laptop part lying on his stomach and part fallen off to balance against the cushioned backrest. It was open and switched on but screen blank; unlike Sherlock it woke up on removal, showing the data tables of something not specified. John saved the file and switched it off, feeling absurdly like walking in a lion’s den.

A moment later and Sherlock stirred. John couldn’t help but twist around, putting his back to face the wall, pulse yammering suddenly. Sherlock didn’t wake but John’s heart refused to settle. God, what was he thinking? He couldn’t hide this from Sherlock. He hadn’t been able to hide a missing toenail from Sherlock (and bloody hell, the Toenail Studies was still an off limits topic).  How could he possibly hide two extra bleeding limbs?

Sherlock mumbled something, an insult by the sound of it, and turned over to face the wall.   Still asleep then.  John closed the door between the kitchen and living room while he made his breakfast. That would be an obvious sign to Sherlock that something was off and would be inspected and studied the moment he woke, but the prickling feeling of being watched wouldn’t leave and the strain in the bindings and ever increasing itch of his new wings was going to drive him up the wall very soon.

Back in the bathroom, stomach churning up its hasty toast breakfast, John shucked off his tops and started to unwind the bindings. He was going to have to tell Sherlock sooner than later, but tell him what? That something in his genetic makeup had decided to switch on, expressing some great ugly wings, and according to this that made Sherlock his life partner, his mate?

Fuck. Sherlock didn’t like being told what to do, much less what to feel. If told he had to love someone, he’d probably hate them purely on principle.

Just for a moment John entertained the notion of making Sherlock fall in love with him before he found out about the wings – and the hell, he was thinking about love now? John swallowed roughly. This was too far and too fast. He had the distinct feeling that much more would lead to panic. He turned to look over his shoulder into the mirror.

The buds were both longer and wider now, about the size of his hand and half his lower arm, but still flushed red. They were spreading out and flattening at the ends, which were less bulbous and more angular, a rough sketch of the shape they’d form. The bones were becoming visible too, thickening and bulging under the translucent skin. Five of them, growing from a hand-like structure. The muscles at the base were also growing and flexing them twitched the wing buds up and down. There was a thick, pliant ridge of skin stretching down from the bottom of the finger closest to his body to the side of the small of his back. It had only been an hour, maybe two. At this rate they’d probably be fully grown by the end of tomorrow at the latest. Not that he really know much about wing development. He’d never seen it before, only the result.

Belatedly John realised that he was still hungry. The growth of so much tissue probably used quite a bit of energy, he supposed, not being able to look away. Reaching around to touch one of the wings it moved automatically into his hand; it was soft, like velvet or silk, hot and tender. Squeezing even a little hurt like pressure on a deep bruise, and he grimaced but didn’t let go. They still itched, a tickling under the skin.

Bloody Sherlock. Couldn’t he have given him some warning? A month’s prior notice? Couldn’t he have at least saved some of the leftovers from last night instead of stuffing his stupid, handsome face?

At least he was eating, John thought as he clambered into the shower. Binging was hardly the epitome of healthy living but at least there was food going in somehow.

The water was cooler than he’d usually have it, the pressure down as low at it was practical. It still stung: he could feel it on the news bones, too hot even though the rest of him was shivering. But it washed off the sweat from being wrapped up all morning as he scrubbed shampoo into his hair. The sensation of water felt new and strange to the growing limbs, like the feel of exposed gum after losing a tooth, only larger. Much larger. And quite a bit more strange.

With a gritty feeling in the back of his throat John touched his right wing, stretching both arm back and wing forward. There’d be complications, of course. Wings were just not practical.

He was half way through drying himself, careful when even the towel felt like it might tear his new skin, when Sherlock stomped his way up the stairs. Panicking – but he’d have to show Sherlock, it really would be better now when they were still small – John wrapped the towel around himself, kicking the strips of sheet he’d been using to bind himself into the corner out of sight.

“John,” Sherlock said loudly from the other side of the doorway. “What are you doing?” In other words, as John automatically translated: I’m bored, entertain me.

“I’m having a bloody shower,” he replied, just as loudly, feeling idiotic with water still running down his legs onto the floor, starting to feel the cold bite.

“I’d say that was unlikely considering the rather obvious lack of water.” Great, he was in one of his pedantic moods. The door shuddered and indistinct noises gave Sherlock away as sitting down in the hall, lying there like a sulking teenager.

“Fine,” John corrected himself, poker-faced. “I’m finishing drying and clothing myself after having a shower. To which I add is usually considered in normal Western society to be included in the process of showering.”

“I’d ask where you got your sources for that,” Sherlock grumbled; John couldn’t quite straighten out the grin worming onto his face. The door rattled. “Let me in.”

The smile ended abruptly. “What?” Bloody hell, he hoped his voice hasn’t been as high as it has sounded to himself. “Sherlock, in case you hadn’t been paying attention, I’m _showering_. Generally something you do in private.” The door continued to rattle. “No, stop that! I’m serious.”

Sherlock scoffed, but the door stopped it’s rattling all the same. “Why? Your morning routine is all over the place. You’re a good deal more concerned for your privacy than usual. I regularly see all sorts of naked people in autopsies. And I’ve seen you naked before.”

“What? When?” John felt a stab of indignation.

“You haven’t had any tattoos, piercings or other bodily modifications since that you’d want to hide from me, not to mention that while we’ve been talking you’ve had more than enough time to dress at least partially. Though by the sounds of it you haven’t.”

“Sod off,” John said, wrapping the towel around his shoulders more firmly, belatedly reaching for his clothes. Cold water was dripping down his neck from wet hair.

“But what else could it be?” Sherlock sounded perturbed from behind the door. “Tumours, suspected cancer? STIs? You wouldn’t hide an injury from me, going from past experience. What don’t you want me to see?”

“Look, just, let it go for now. In all seriousness. I’ll tell you – show you later, in my own time.”

“I want to see now.” The door shook half heartedly.

“No. If you come in,” John said evenly, patience wearing thin, “I will punch you in the face.”

There was a pause. The door fell still. “John, please. Why don’t you trust me to know? I’m worried about you.”

And that was the final straw. “For fuck’s sake Sherlock, that’s emotional manipulation, right there. That is not right in this situation, in any situation, so you can just go and sod off, and stay away from me. I’ll show you when I’m ready and not before, and the longer you’re around here bugging me the longer that’ll be.”

Sherlock chuckled in the silence that followed, dry and humourless. “Worth a try,” he said.

“No, nope,” John snapped back. “Really not.”

There was another pause, in which John took the opportunity to finish drying himself. He put on his trousers, picked up the strips of cloth and tried to arrange them across his back, and was it his imagination or had his wings got even larger?

Sherlock still hadn’t left, didn't move even as the minutes ticked on. John sighed, wriggled his shoulders as the bindings felt far too tight under his clothes. “It’s not dangerous,” he said. “My health is perfectly fine. And I promise, I will show you, just not now. When I’m ready.”

Outside, there was a muffled thump. “Go on then, don’t show me,” Sherlock said, quieter, deadpan. “I’m not looking.”

To trust Sherlock’s word or to not? John sighed, too wrung out to hold on to his irritation; as much as he was leaning towards being wary he couldn’t very well stand around in the bathroom all day. He opened the door and peered out. Sherlock was lying on his front in the middle of the hallway, head tilted away to face the wall.

“You do know this is what toddlers and thirteen year old girls do,” John said as he stepped out and over Sherlock’s legs, watching him carefully as he made the few feet to his own room. “Throwing a strop on the floor because they can’t have their own way, I mean.”

“In your own words,” Sherlock said, muffled in the carpet, “sod off.”

John smiled weakly. Safe in his room he locked the door, because he still wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to try and sneak in, and flopped down onto the bed on his front. Even that motion pulled at his clothes, tugging on the bloody wings, and John shuffled onto his knees to undo the bindings from under his clothes. They ached, being released, and stretched into the lose fabric of his T-shirt.

He groaned. Why the hell hadn’t he shown Sherlock then? He should have just got it out of the way and over with as soon as possible. He didn’t need to tell anyone it was to do with finding a partner. John buried his head in the pillows again. What the hell was he meant to say? And what would he do if Sherlock couldn’t stand them?

Why the hell was this happening to him? He’d been perfectly happy before.

Because suddenly a realisation was kicking up anxiety in the pit of his stomach – that now he’d be no use for Sherlock’s investigations. Even hidden the lumps and thick clothes would raise eyebrows, become obvious, draw attention. Exactly what he couldn’t be allowed to do. If Sherlock didn’t mind the physical wings he would mind his work being ruined.

John would be left at home, not able to follow, to support, to protect. He’d be wallowing in his own fucking misery and even the thought of it was sickening.

Which meant that he couldn’t have wings. That they’d have to be amputated. He could sign up on the NHS but there was such a long waiting list for this type of thing what with so few anomaly-specialised doctors qualified or willing, it might take years. He couldn’t even argue that they were decreasing his quality of life, not since the equality laws were brought in, no matter the actual reality. Privately it would cost more than he’d be able to realistically pay. He could ask Sherlock to do it. Sherlock knew his way around a scalpel and could easily steal some local anaesthetic: that way, with the use of a couple of mirrors, John could direct him.

Fuck, what was he thinking? Of course Sherlock couldn’t do it. The trouble he’d be in if it went wrong.

He still felt sick. He didn’t want an amputation. They were right, they were important. The thought of living without them, even though he’d only realised they were even there that morning, was just plain wrong. It felt like he’d been asked to cut out his eyes. He could feel a shiver run down his spine, the thin hairs on his neck and back stand up.

No. He was being melodramatic. He didn’t need his wings. Maybe the NHS waiting list was smaller than when he’d checked, years ago. He could get a loan for it to be done privately. It would cost him his pension, make him poor for the rest of his life, but he ought to be able to stay in 221 if careful with his money.

He didn’t want to think about it. John reached over to his bedside drawer and pulled out a couple of Mars bars, hidden there from Sherlock’s experiments, boredom and stomach. Not something he’d usually hide in his bedroom but nothing survived Sherlock for long and there were only so many late night trips to Tesco for edible, convenient food he could handle. The first he ate quickly – bloody hell he was hungry – and the second slower. He’d have to go down for lunch at some point, but he could put it off for a bit. Cowardly yes, but so what? Wait for Sherlock’s sulk to pass. Then again waiting might only make his sulk grow worse, make him even more impatient to know what was being hidden from him.

What would Sherlock say about the wings, about the amputation?

Obvious. To him the work was the most important thing. It was an amputation or being left behind. Sherlock had no use for anomalies getting in the way. Certainly not stupid, blindingly obvious anomalies with stupid, sentimental causes. And bloody fucking wings growing for your life partner was just about as stupid, cumbersome and mawkish as it got.

“I’m going out!” Sherlock shouted from downstairs. He still sounded sulky.

“Fine!” John shouted back, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Buy some apples on your way back.”

There wasn’t a reply, but then he hadn’t expected one. Waiting another few minutes he heaved himself up, took off his jumper and inspected the misshapen lumps tenting and pulling at his shirt, now quite visible from just looking over one shoulder.

His wings were growing. They wouldn’t be there for long, but – he had a life partner, a mate. He had _Sherlock_.

Making lunch in the empty kitchen, frying up sausages and onion, he tried to think that through: living with Sherlock for the rest of his life. Living like this for the rest of his life. Like this and maybe, just maybe, if Sherlock would have him, more: more than the snatches of Sherlock’s arms under his hands, lean, strong. The firm press of a thigh when they sat next to each other, close for whatever reason. Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders, around his chest, physically guiding him.

The curve of his lips, the flush on high cheekbones from running, in a different setting. Long fingers on dexterous hands.

No hope for a quiet, safe life, settling down. No children.

John ate and washed up on autopilot. He wanted Sherlock. Damn it all, he wanted Sherlock so much, he’d take whatever was thrown to him with both hands. A pair of wings or an amputation were not even factors.

The wings meant nothing, when it came down to it. Not to compared to Sherlock.

The afternoon was spent watching bad daytime telly and flicking over some new BMJ articles on the laptop, distracted by the ever present itch, the feel of new tissue growing larger and stronger by the hour. Evening found him cooking again, if only to do something with his hands. Sherlock wasn’t back and should that be worrying? He hadn’t said when he’d be home. He very often wasn’t home until stupid o’clock in the morning. But what if he knew? What if he’d deduced what was wrong and didn’t want to come back?

What if he didn’t want him, wings or no wings, anyway?

John clumped upstairs and told himself to shut up and stop thinking like a hysterical teenager. In the bathroom, topless and brushing his teeth, he didn’t need to turn around to see the tips of his wings peaking up over his shoulders. There were little claws developing on the ends of the fingers. It still looked red around the bones but was dulling to a pale skin tone in the membranes, now flattened to millimetres thick and stretching from finger to finger, from the equivalent of each hand to the top of his shoulder blades, and from each little finger to the top of his hips. The wings themselves were about the length of his arms outstretched and their fingers opened out to just as wide, John noted absently, trying and somewhat failing to control them fluently. The muscle wasn’t developed enough, he supposed. When he curled them up, half on his back and half tucked along his sides under his arms, they felt warm and soft.

Lying on his front on his bed he considered that he’d have to get used to sleeping like this.  Even after the amputation.  It would hurt like all buggery fuck, more if he was unlucky, but then so had his shoulder back before.  So had his leg.  He wondered if it would hurt more or less (probably more).  He wondered whether he’d make himself broke by doing it privately or if NHS would in fact do it – but the NHS didn’t do that sort of thing, not according to any source he’d found searching the internet that afternoon.  Government promotion of unique types.  _It is not a disfigurement, it is unique._  Equality propaganda preventing any sort of medical removal.  He should try anyway.

Maybe if I break them enough, John considered, sleepily. Maybe if useless and painful they’d be removed. Maybe then.

He dreamt of Sherlock dissecting his wings – a saw for the larger bones, knife for the smaller, cutting lengthways and scooping out the marrow. “It’s too heavy,” Sherlock was explaining, before the dream shifted into something else and he forgot.

When he woke the first thing John noticed was that he was lying on his front and it was uncomfortable. The second was that there was something covering his back and it wasn’t the duvet.

Then he jolted wide awake, pushing himself up with his hands, and his wings spread out and knocked a book off the desk.

They were massive and powerful, casting giant shadows. The skin was soft but strong and elastic, looking bare but covered in short fur, dishwater blond like his hair but downy, sensitive to the breeze as it brushed over gently unfurling membrane. Pale, looking unhealthily so. The muscles on his back were solid and large but not obviously so: all attention was stolen by the wings themselves.

He got up shakily, expecting to topple over with the imbalance of weight, but with his hands carefully on the mattress, bedside table and then desk, he inched towards the door. His heart was pounding: simply feeling the bones he hadn’t had before shift as naturally as if he’d been born with them was horrifying and exhilarating. It felt like he ought to be cowering beneath the sheerness of them. He could feel the draught from his movement, the rub when they touched his body or trailed on the ground, as one of the fingers from each wing were more than long enough to do.

The last few days felt like a dream and now this was waking up to find it reality.

This was going to screw with his life beyond belief.

What did they look like? How where they constructed? Mirror. He needed a mirror.

Stumbling into the bathroom, clipping his wings on the doorframe, he knocked over a bottle of shampoo. He drew his wings closer to his body in surprise at the clatter, swearing. The velvet touch of membrane and harder bump of bone on his skin was foreign and bizarre and he found himself flinching away from it in futile effort. He only knocked over more things, a bar of soap and Sherlock’s ridiculous conditioner rattling into the bathtub.

Footsteps ran up the stairs. John panicked and slammed the door shut, locking it. He clutched his wings closer to himself, the volumes of membrane folding up around his waist and hips, brushing together where they met in front of his legs.

“John, I –” Sherlock started then cut himself off, standing in the hall outside the bathroom door. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t try to come in. Christ, this was stupid. Silently, John took a breath and shimmied open the lock. He stepped away and with a quick glance in the mirror (the bottom reaches of the scar on his left shoulder was distorted around the wing’s base), he turned around the face the wall over the bath, his back to the door.

“Right,” he said, steady. “Come in if you want. Door’s open.”

He wouldn’t have known there was someone there at all had he not been hypersensitive, straining for the faintest of noises, feeling the smallest brush of air. As it was Sherlock’s eyes on him were all but tangible and John straightened, holding his body to attention. Turn around idiot, he told himself, turn around. Turn around.

When there came a touch on the main bone of his right wing, just below where it merged with his shoulder, John flinched violently. Instantly the touch was gone.

“Did that hurt?” Sherlock was asking, low and insistent, and John shook his head, huffing a shaky laugh.

“No, it’s fine. You just surprised me, that’s all.” His wings shivered as he stretched them out hesitantly, just a foot to the side each way. Gently, as light as if touching dried blood splatter, Sherlock’s hand returned. It was dry and slightly cool, fingers curling to brush against the membrane. A pressure on the edge of a muscle, running along its length.

“How – how long?” For once, Sherlock didn’t seem to have the words. John swallowed before answering.

“Not long, only found out myself yesterday.” He chuckled weakly. “Don’t worry, your detective skills haven’t gone to pot just yet.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to that, not even the derisive snort ever familiar to jabs at his work.

“It’s genetic,” John continued, hesitant. “Mother’s side. We try to keep quiet about it. You know. Obvious reasons.”

The pressure continued down the bone to where the fingers branched off. It touched the membrane, holding a fold in the skin, smoothing out the surface. The touch prickled not uncomfortably.

After a long few seconds Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat. It sounded a little like laughter. “Of all the possibilities – really John, wings? Bat wings?”

John made a vague, aimless gesture with his hands. “It’s more logical,” he said, quiet, shaped with an uncertain smile. “Than bird wings, that is. Bats being mammals like humans and birds evolving from dinosaurs, closest living relatives the crocodilians – being reptiles and all.”

Sherlock breathed a chuckle, the flow of it tangible in the shifting of the membrane fur. “You researched that,” he accused. “You’ve just been waiting for a chance to say it, haven’t you?”

John’s smile widened and he shook his head minutely, though not in dispute. “For years,” he admitted, and stretched out his wings just a little wider, just enough for the tips to brush the bathroom walls. “You’re taking this remarkably well,” he said absently. It wasn’t a question and didn’t get an answer.

There was another little pause, Sherlock’s hands still present: mapping the structures, tracing around every joint. “Can you fly?” His tone was uncertain.

John shrugged, found that some time in the past few minutes his shoulders had relaxed. “Don’t know. My mum can’t, no idea about Harry. Almost don’t want to know, definitely don’t want to try.” He snorted a quiet chuckle. “Apart from being stupidly dangerous, I mean, in case it’s absolutely brilliant and after the amputation I end up depressed.”

Sherlock’s hands froze then disappeared and John found his back and wings tensing up, folding closer to himself. “Amputation?” Sherlock said, and oh bloody hell, the amputation. He hadn’t even considered that Sherlock wouldn’t have thought of it.

“It’s sort of necessary,” he said, tried to sound casual and confident and failing utterly. “Bit hard to go about tailing criminals when you look like this. The wings and the half naked bit.”

Sherlock’s hands were back, more insistent. “Don’t,” he said. “I’ll go on my own.”

His wings fluttered a little but didn’t shake off the hands holding them. “Stop being an idiot,” John said, and he really ought to turn around but he still couldn’t quite. “You’d be murdered before the week’s out and then where would I be?”

“I can’t let you –” Sherlock said, but trailed off. “How can you be so bloody flippant about this?” His grip tightened and this time was shaken off, but returned at once. There was something in his tone that was new and John couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. His hands were not exploring any more but possessive.

“Look, you can’t deny I’d be useless most of the time and worse than that the rest if I did nothing. And if it’s a choice between you and these things -” he punctuation the word with a shake of his wings, “that I’ve had for less than two days, well. I’d be stupid to – why the hell would I pick – look, I liked our life before just fine.” Christ, he needed to stop speaking. “I’m not going to give it up for any – for a pair of wings I didn’t even want in the first place.”

“Eloquent as ever, John,” Sherlock said, after a heavy moment. The breath of his words stirred across John’s bare shoulders. “But I still don’t agree with you.”

“Yeah, when’ve you ever,” John said, breaking into a short grin and about to turn around, when with a sharp inhale he became suddenly very, very aware that Sherlock’s hands were no longer on his wings but curling around his lower back, one on each side and over the membrane webbing, large and steady with intent. They settled on his waist: firm, possessive.

John’s breath hitched, all thoughts of wings and amputations gone. “Sherlock,” he said, slowly, careful, because his heart was in his mouth and he couldn’t quite think, he probably couldn’t bear it if he was wrong about what this might be.

“Yes?” Sherlock didn’t move his hands; he didn’t sound as sure as was usual but he didn’t move his hands.  There was hot breath on the nape of John's neck.

“Are you – what are you doing?” God, he couldn’t even say it. “I didn’t think you were – are you sure?”

“I think the answer to that,” Sherlock said, low; the words were humid, prickling against his skin, “is obvious. Even to you.”

John snorted in amusement, attempted to swallow down his heart as it beat thick and fast; he reached to take Sherlock’s hands in his own, twining their fingers together when Sherlock’s grip remained firmly on his waist. His wings extended then closed around their hands. A surprised huff of breath as Sherlock pressed his lips to the nape of John’s neck: a nip, a tiny flick of the tongue. A step and Sherlock was flush against his back, hot and heavy. Another gentle bite, this time just behind one ear.

A moment passed and John pulled away, disentangling himself. “If we’re going to – downstairs, or bedroom?” he said, turning, and didn’t resist as Sherlock grabbed his waist again and pulled him closer, forehead to forehead. “Anywhere but the bathroom.” His voice had turned breathy.

Sherlock smirked, ran the pads of his thumbs down the seam along John’s sides where back met wing membrane. John shivered. “If you insist,” Sherlock said grandly, already manoeuvring them out into the hall and into John’s bedroom, step by step, not separating. His eyes were on John’s face and they were gloating. “Can you lie on your back?”

John hummed. He couldn’t seem to wipe his grin off. “Probably, but I doubt it’d be comfortable.”

“Ah well,” Sherlock murmured, purred into John’s mouth. They kissed, barely more than chaste, a swipe of tongue over the inside of lips. Sherlock backed onto the bed, sitting against the headboard and pulling John onto his lap. John shook his wings, finding a place comfortable enough to lie them back on the mattress, and laughed as Sherlock nipped at and kissed his jawline.

“God, eager, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

The long, strong limbs and curled flyaway hair were almost irresistible to John’s hands, solid bone and muscle, round jaw and broad shoulders. Still. John leant away, sitting further back on Sherlock’s thighs, smiling into the kiss as Sherlock griped his lower lip between his teeth and tried to pull him back closer.

“Hold on,” he said, stopping Sherlock’s hands as they wandered to his belt buckle. “Hold your horses. Five minutes.”

“You have two minutes absolute maximum,” Sherlock said, hooded eyed and smirking, leaning forward to peck the side of John’s mouth before sitting back against the wall. His hands gripped John’s hips and didn’t feel like they’d be letting go any time soon.

“If I’d known how downright pushy you are,” John grinned.

“You would have done something sooner,” Sherlock agreed, lazy.

“Tosser.” John swatted his shoulder. “Right, no, I’m just asking – and not complaining, really, I mean really, but now? This, I mean. What we’re doing. Why now of all times, when I’m quietly having my I Have Bloody Wings crisis? Is it the actual wings? And I don’t know, why not after? Before? You never even seemed interested. Are you into this sort of thing or something?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Into wings, did you mean, or into John’s various life crises? And I’ve said it before but apparently it seems to bear repeating: your observational skills are regrettably lacking.” He ignored the huff of fond exasperation at the insult, and wrapped his hands over John’s chest, fingers curling around ribs and thumbs pressing lightly onto his nipples, tiny circular movements. Then he reached forward and touched the bases of John’s wings, running up and down the bones. “Look at you,” he said, practically a growl. “You’re growing wings. Started growing them yesterday, took you completely by surprise, despite the fact that both your mother and Harry possess them – or in Harry’s case, possessed. And now you’re already thinking about amputation, but probably just the sort of plebeian thoughts like surgery costs and how many days of sick leave you’d have to take.” His smile quirked at John’s expression. “You don’t get it, do you. All of the things I thought it could’ve been. Wings? They’re glorious. They’re quite. Fantastic.”

John snorted. “I didn’t chose to grow them. They could be on anyone. The only thing I have is the genetics and that’s hardly a good reason for – well, this.”

“They’re the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Sherlock continued, as if John hadn’t spoken at all. “And you don’t care. At all. You’d cut them off like trimming fingernails. Amputate what would be the best part of anyone else. And you’d do it for me.”

“For you, you great self-centred berk,” John agreed, and he shuffled forward, hands either side of Sherlock’s head before descending to undo the buttons on his shirt. “Of course I would.”

They kissed, slower than before, taking the time to map rows of teeth and the malleable expanse of tongue. John ran his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, feeling the fading ridges of ribs and spine, up to his shoulder blades, brushing over hardened nipples. He broke away and grinned sheepishly as Sherlock leant forward, trying to reclaim his lips.

“As much as you’re young and flexible,” he said, “my leg is not enjoying sitting like this.”

Sherlock laughed – a short, soft bark of a laugh, and wrapped one arm around John, wings and all. With the other braced on the mattress he kicked the duvet from underneath them, an awkward movement, and piling it up with the pillows he pushed John back onto it. “Better?” he asked, inching forward on his knees until astride John’s hips.

John grinned up at him, wriggling his shoulders, squashing down the duvet into shape with powerful new muscles. His wings spread out across the bed, open wide, and he put his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “Better. Or, you know, I could be on top.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock murmured, sinfully deep, lying down carefully, “I rather think I like seeing you like this.” His body was a hot weight, pinning John down from ankle to chest. Hands on shoulders he licked John’s mouth open, deepening the kiss, and hummed appreciatively as hands snaked around his waist. It was slow and lazy and John didn’t think it was possible that the feel of his heart swelling could grow any further.

“You know,” John managed through a tiny giggle as Sherlock bit the end of his nose, delicate, “this is crazy. Actually crazy.”

“Oh?” Sherlock said conversationally, wriggling an inch to run his lips up the bridge of John’s nose, nipping the skin there between his eyes. “And what lead you to draw that particular conclusion?”

“Look at me.” John spread his arms, raised his wings an inch from the bed. “I’ve got wings, fucking wings, and my – _you_ lying on my chest. Biting my face. I am currently more thoroughly snogged than I have been in months. I just. How?”

“The hows and whys of one quarter of that is, regrettably, beyond me,” Sherlock murmured, moving straight teeth to John’s eyelids, which quickly snapped shut. “However the causes if the other three quarters I can personally testify to. Quite simply they are -” and his voice dropped into a self-satisfied growl, “ _John_ , and _finally_.”

John laughed, prised Sherlock away from his closed eyes and kissed him on the lips. “That,” he said, punctuating each word with another kiss, “doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Sherlock sniped, tone diminished completely as he returned the kisses as eagerly as they were given.

“To someone who’s a complete nutter, maybe,” John said, distracted by the fingers running along his arms, searching out the elbow, the small rises and falls around muscle and tendons. “Hey, hey,” he said eventually. Sherlock brought up his hand to between their faces, alternatively kissing and biting, feather-light, each knuckle. “Starting to get pins and needles, going to have to get up.”

“Never happy, are you?” Sherlock smirked. As he lent back on his heels he trailed kisses down John’s chest, the last a gentle nip to the skin of his belly. John stifled a giggle as he scrambled up, opening and closing his wings as if in slow motion flight. “Ticklish?” Sherlock cocked his head, looking smug.

“No!” John defended, covering his stomach with his arms anyway. “And honestly Sherlock. Biting?”

Sherlock only laughed, a deep throated chuckle, and flopped down onto his back on the duvet, pulling John down with him by the hips. John landed on his stomach, draping one wing over them and the other tipping off the side of the bed. They lay there, unhurried, Sherlock moving one of his legs to lie over John’s, still clutching him around the middle.

“I was serious, you know,” John said eventually, quietly. He tilted his head to look Sherlock in the eye. “Before, about the amputation.” Sherlock didn’t say anything, only traced the folds in the wing membrane covering his chest. “It just won’t work, having these. I won’t be able to come with you, keep you safe – and even if that means you won’t have me – not like this – I’ll still get it done.”

“Stupid,” Sherlock murmured. He shifted, buried his face in the crook of John’s neck. “You’re even more of an idiot than I thought to think I’d give you up for anything now.”

The smile was enough to make his jaws ache. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s chest and kissed him slowly. “You’re going to have to stay safer anyway,” he said. “Since I’ll be taking more hours at the surgery to pay for it.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. “I have the money,” he said.

John breathed a quiet laugh. “Unless you’ve got a secret Swiss bank account, I know how much you have, and you really don’t.” He realised that he’d been wrong earlier: the feel of his heart swelling had neither stopped nor slowed.

“Mycroft does then.”

John snorted. “I am not owing your brother forty thousand quid.”

Sherlock opened his eyes at that and looked scandalised. “It can’t be that much,” he said.

“Trust me, for something like this, they can and do charge that.”

Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side to further tuck underneath John’s wing. “We’ll manage,” he said. He closed his eyes and burrowed deeper into the bed covers.

“Yeah, suppose we will,” John said, softly, and then: “Sherlock, you lazy sod, don’t go back to sleep. It’s not even noon.”

Sherlock only laughed; he opened his eyes just long enough to find John’s lips, then kissed him there, lingering.


End file.
